


Breathe, collect the pieces.

by 221Bbakerqueer



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Meltdown, Minor trigger warning for self harm, aspie!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 16:32:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10032251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Bbakerqueer/pseuds/221Bbakerqueer
Summary: The thing about perceiving everything that meets one of your senses is that your brain never rest. If he closes his eyes to avoid involuntary deductions, he still hears the way a person speaks too fast and then falters or the weird pauses in which he can almost picture the lies taking form.If both eyes and ears are closed, something is for sure going to tickle his nostrils, maybe the same perfume on two different persons or the strong scents of deodorant or the way Anderson and Donovan too often smell alike.He can't rest. That's the best and worst thing at the same time. His brain is a machine, it never rests. It is constantly busy deducing important things and less important things, always working whether it's a case or the way someone is limping on the stairs. He can't rest.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo this is the first time i post here and I'm not sure what i should be writing in this space.  
> This little thing comes from personal experience. This character is in a special way very close to me so i thought, why not?  
> Please leave reviews, I always appreciate suggestions and opinions! Also, English is not my native language so please let me know if my grammar goes missing somewhere along the path.
> 
> Love,  
> Evander.

 

The thing about perceiving everything that meets one of your senses is that your brain never rest. If he closes his eyes to avoid involuntary deductions, he still hears the way a person speaks too fast and then falters or the weird pauses in which he can almost picture the lies taking form.

If both eyes and ears are closed, something is for sure going to tickle his nostrils, maybe the same perfume on two different persons or the strong scents of deodorant or the way Anderson and Donovan too often smell alike.

He can't rest. That's the best and worst thing at the same time. His brain is a machine, it never rests. It is constantly busy deducing important things and less important things, always working whether it's a case or the way someone is limping on the stairs. He can't rest. His fingers brush absently on the armrest of his chair, tracing imaginary patterns while his mind is self inducing something in his Mind Palace.

 

Then suddenly it becomes too much.

There's too much noise, too many feet stomping around in the building making the floor cracks and too many door shutting and opening shutting and opening shutting and

 

_Stop. Need to breathe._

 

The texture of the chair is starting to burn on his fingertips, sending shivers through his whole neurological system. Too silky, too smooth too much too much too much his fingers hurt his skin wants to rip away.

Eyes shut, but he can see in the back of his eyelids Mrs Hudson moving things around in her tiny kitchen, cutlery clinking loudly in the sink, the plates sliding against each other and hitting the table surface with a muffled screeching.

He needs distraction. _Distraction distraction distraction._

His nose fills up with dust at every intake of air, he can feel the weeks of closed windows compromising his flesh and lungs and blood and he feels so dirty inside _inside inside inside_

 

_Inside_

 

He feels like crawling out of his own skin, breaking the flesh involucre like a newborn butterfly. His fingers are spasming against his biceps, the dirt is accumulating under his nails and he's nowhere close to being a butterfly, he feels like a worm grovelling in a mix of mud and blood and loud noises are making him deaf and smells are burning his nose and he can't help the trashing of his own body

_back and forth_

 

_back and forth_

 

 _Stop, need to breathe!_ But his thoughts get shaken out of his brain by the violent shaking of his head that keeps saying no to every single molecule of this place Right and left right and left no _no no no no no_

 

«Sherlock?» that's a noise, human noise. It's a no.

Please don't don't don't

 

_Don't_

 

«Sherlock? Don't what? Hey now, calm down!» no no no _no_

 

_no it's too much it's too much_

Too much light it can filter through his too tin eyelids and too much noise it keeps pounding in his ears passing throughout the back of his desperate hands shaking the very core of his bones and hammering into his tympanum.

 

«Sherlock, can I touch you?»

_No no no no no_

 

_Maybe?_

 

«I am going to touch your hands, alright?» and he feels rough hands gently grasping his lightly wet ones.

Wet? Why are they wet?

 

«Jesus Christ...» a deep sigh. Mommy often said that when he gets like this. When he used to, anyway. But this is not his mother voice nor his mother hands and there's something reassuring yet alarmingly controlling in the way his hair is being lightly stroked.

 

«Sherlock, stop. It's all fine.» But it's not fine, is it? There's so much that demands to be studied and touched and tastes and listened to and he just can't

 

_he can't_

 

_He can't_

 

«Sherlock, it's alright. I am here, it's all fine.»

He doesn't feel his own arms holding out and his fingers gripping the soft hems of a flannel shirt. John, it's John.

 

_John John John_

 

«Yeah, it's me Sherlock. Shh, don't-don't do this, calm down.» has he started pulling at his shirt? Yes. John's hands are stopping his.

 

_Sorry John._

 

«You need to breathe Sherlock, you're going to faint if you keep doing this.»

The scents in the room are slowly dissipating, his lungs can't yet expand properly. His chest is hurting.

 

«Here, see? It's alright, do it with me. Nothing to worry about.» skilled gestures bring his right hand up to touch hot skin, a thumb presses his own into a soft spot.

_Heartbeat._

_Tum._

 

_Tum._

 

_Tum._

 

_Breathe._

 

«Good lad, see? That's good.» His thumb's tip is burning. John's heart is loudly telling him to calm down a bit, not quite relaxed on its own, but still slower that Sherlock's wilding one.

 

The muscles in his back loosen a little, a sudden lump melts in his sore throat and a become hot tingling feeling in his burning eyes.

«Let it out, it's fine. It's fine. » A gentle touch strokes his leg, up and down up and down in a soothing rhythm. It's all fine. An ugly sob shakes Sherlock's whole body, sending all of his limbs in shock by the sudden release. His tongue leaves the pressured contact with the roof of his mouth and the back of his teeth, he can taste blood. «Sorry sorry sorry I'm so sorry John I-» blabbering is not his thing, the words are not the one he'd chose. His body is finally failing his collected mind.

«Oh god, hush. It's alright Sherlock, there's nothing to be sorry about. It's okay.» John's voice is in full doctor mode. Sherlock ears are starting to recover. His eyes are no longer shut tight, more likely closed as if he were asleep. Betraying tears are making their fast way out.

 

«What happened? Did something trigger it?»

Are his lips able to move? Chapped, a thin layer of blood covers them. «'Dunno. Everything.» breathe in, breathe out.

 

_Calm down, collect. It's all fine._

He needs to be. His eyelids flutter quickly, corneas and pupils hit by the sunlight.

 

«Thank you for telling me. I am sorry, you're fine now.» He misses John pained face, but clearly detects the hurt in his voice. He feels the hands starting to ache from the spasm, a thin coat of something -blood?- cracking with every gesture. «What did I do» he's slurring out words, tongue tired.

«You took it on your arms.» he cracks one eye open to see the apologetic smile on John's lips.

«I'm sorry.»

«Shut up.»

«Yeah.»

 

 

The thing about living with his "gift", as John likes to call it, is that it comes with downfalls. Sherlock likes to call them that, downfalls. Meltdowns always felt thick in his mouth, loud in his ears when mommy and the doctors discussed about his health. It's not like he's ashamed, but back then it's was hard to find a doctor that didn't treat him like a damaged child. Once he told John, just after letting him know his situation, that he preferred people to think he was an asshole. Because there's this common misconception that if you are autistic in the asperger spectrum, you are either a genius or a dysfunctional human being and he doesn't want to be neither. «Just let them think I'm an asshole, John. I cope way better with hate than pity.»

That time he couldn't decode the look in John's eyes, but he didn't question further. He can see it now, burning low like extinguished ashes in a fireplace, while the doctor's fingers examine his face and wounds, his bloodshot eyes and hands.

 

«Out of it?» a gentle phrasing, eyes waiting for Sherlock to look at him and not just to him. «I think so.»

«That's good. Cup of tea?»

 

A small nod while he readjusts himself on the sofa, matted hair stuck on his sweaty forehead. And he knows just how John is going to leave the tea bag a little less in the hot water, to avoid a stronger taste in Sherlock's cup. He knows he will put just one spoon of sugar, to let Sherlock's tastebuds regain control. Because John is just like that, maybe because he's a doctor or because he's seen the effects of his mistakes enough times to let it happen again.

And maybe because every time he sees Sherlock crumbling apart, sliding on the floor, clutching at his own hair with desperation and gasping for air, he sees himself in his old room, gun pointed at the roof of his mouth, hands trembling and panic raising. And oh, how he wished he had a Sherlock by his side.

 

 

But maybe he simply loves him.

 


End file.
